


You May Get a Sentimental Feeling

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Christmas, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Post-Series, secret santa fic exchange, the full Zoldyck clan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 14:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: Killua returns home for the holidays for the first time since he left all those years ago





	You May Get a Sentimental Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to assume that since there's a Jesus and a Judas, canonically, there's also a Christmas and we're going to roll from there. This fic is from last year's secret santa gift exchange!

Killua arrived at the gates of the Zoldyck mansion with the last tour bus of the season, a cap pulled down over his nose as the guide warbled cheerfully through her lecture. Already the roads up the side of the mountain were growing dense with snowfall, banks pushed up like protective walls along the canyon-facing side. He stood just below the testing gate, bags at his feet, chewing the last bite of a peppermint stick while the tourguide tried desperately to get him to come back down.

“You’re sure, young man?” the guide asked him, her smile twitching nervously. “It’s Christmas tomorrow, and we won’t send another tour up until the snow thaws. That could be–”

“March 30th,” Killua said. He sniffed at the air, taking in the familiar mint scent of winter. “It’s starting late this year. It won’t take as long to unthaw.”

“Sir,” the guide pleaded, “you can’t possibly stay up here for three months. Come back down with the rest of the group.”

Killua shrugged, swinging his oversized bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, lady, I’ll just walk down. I only caught a ride up because hiking by yourself is so boring.” He turned, making to leave, and then paused. “It’s nice of you to worry, though,” he added, glancing over his shoulder.

With one firm push, the testing gates swung open in front of him to reveal the snow-powdered wilderness of the front property and admitted Killua like an old friend. Which he supposed, in a way, he was. “Merry Christmas, or whatever,” he said.

Killua walked the length of the acreage in a sullen determination to move no faster than absolutely necessary. This would be his first Christmas with the family since he left, three years ago. He’d only accepted the invitation on the grounds that Alluka be invited too, like a real person, but then Alluka had gone all uneasy pacing from room to room and smiling unevenly, and he’d realized that he’d made another mistake. He was putting his own desire to see the family eat their words above his sister’s happiness. Of course she wouldn’t want to go back there. She was probably worried she wouldn't get out again. So, in order to avoid telling her why he’d accepted it in the first place, he left her in friends' care and went alone.

Christmas dinner had always been a tradition carved in stone at the manor, a particular order of sitting and receiving and eating… The endless piles of gifts had barely made the tedious routine worth it. It was all kind of distant and strange to Killua now, after three years away. He remembered loathing his mother’s fussing with every fiber of his being. The fussing itself, though, was fuzzier in his memory.

The distant shape of Canary’s post appeared between the parting branches, and Killua felt his heart quicken. How was she doing? He hadn’t seen her since she risked her life and her livelihood to help Alluka escape. He moved faster now, breaking into a jog, wondering at the back of his mind whether she was okay, whether she had suffered for her part in the private struggle. He crackled with nen, leapt, and skidded to a halt at the bottom of the steps, his nose gently bumping the round ornament of Canary’s cane. A single spark of electricity jumped from the tip of his nose to the end of the ball.

“Master Killua!” she said, her stoic expression breaking for just a moment into real surprise and joy. She drew back, relaxing marginally. It was never acceptable for a butler to entirely relax, Killua remembered all at once, not as long as they remained in protective employ. She still looked noticeably more at ease, though.

Killua looked her over quickly, searching for signs of mistreatment. He wasn’t above running off with a servant as well as a sister. But– “You seem okay,” he said, with a slight nod.

“Of course, master Killua,” Canary said. With a twirl, she returned the staff to her side. Solid, familiar Canary–-some of the dread in Killua’s heart eased at her very presence. He tended to forget that there had been good things and good people on the estate too, now that he was away from it.

“I’ll see you at dinner?” Killua asked.

Canary tilted her head. “I’m afraid not, master Killua. You might not remember, but the servants celebrate our Christmas the day after the family.”

“Oh,” Killua said. He did sort of remember that.

“Go on up,” Canary said, stepping neatly to the side. “Several people are very excited to see you.”

Killua groaned. “Are you sure you can’t come up with me?” he said. “I’ll tell them I ordered you.”

Canary shook her head, the flicker of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been very missed,” she said, leaning in just a fraction, her voice quiet and confidential. “More than you know.”

Killua chewed on that the whole rest of the way to the manor, kicking over stones in his path. Missed? Maybe he’d cost his dad some revenue, and maybe his mother had one less son to brag about, but he seriously doubted that he’d been missed in any meaningful way.

Without having thought much about it, Killua guessed that he’d expected one of the butlers to meet him at the door–-maybe Gotoh-–but as he approached the colossal front doors, what actually happened was that a blur dropped like a stone from the gable of the roof and landed in front of him, as he skidded back into a defensive stance. Illumi rose from the concrete, his long hair swaying, dark eyes unblinking, and revealed the knitted reindeer on his oversized Christmas sweater. The nose of which flashed a cheerful festive red.

Killua stared for a moment, and then the shock gave way to hysterics as he collapsed forward, hands on his knees, and tried to breathe through his laughter. All the while, Illumi watched him in nonplussed silence, the red bulb of his sweater blink-blinking.

“Killua,” his oldest brother said, “are you well?”

Killua wiped a tear from his cheek and straightened up, a huge weight all at once evaporated from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m fine. Holy shit that sweater is so stupid.”

Illumi pinched the hem of the sweater between his nails, regarding it with clinical interest. “Mother knitted one for all of us last year,” he said. “After your departure her nerves were quite frayed. The hobby proved to be very steadying for her. I am encouraging her recovery by wearing the product of her work. I have been informed that it is… cute.”

Killua’s eyes watered with the force of trying to keep another fit of laughter tamped down. His mother, the famed assassin, knitting sweaters. She must be getting old.

“One was made for you,” Illumi added, in what was for him a reproachful tone of voice. “I have held on to it for you. Mother will be gratified to see you wear it at dinner.”

“Whoa,” Killua said, “no no no, there’s no way I’m wearing anything like that monstrosity you’ve got on.”

“You will wear your sweater. You broke our poor mother’s heart when you left.” The waterfall of Illumi’s hair shifted. “You will wear the sweater.”

“No way,” Killua said, “no fucking way! Over my dead body!”

Half an hour later, Killua stood in the primary foyer of the manor with a cheerful snowman emblazoned across his chest. The corncob pipe in its mouth had a lightbulb at the end. Killua stood, hunched and blinking a festive yellow, as staff members came and went all around him.

“I cannot believe this,” he said, to no one in particular.

There was a flash of black as Kalluto leapt the banister and landed gracefully beside him. His particular sweater was dotted with white stars, one in particular over the right breast fancier and more involved than the rest. Figures he’d get the one sweater that was almost bearable.

“So you came,” Kalluto said. He brushed the pleats of his skirt back into place, absently.

“I said I was gonna,” Killua retorted. He’d never been close with Kalluto, and now after so much time apart he really had no idea how to talk to the kid.

Kalluto was quiet for a moment, at Killua’s side, watching the hustle and bustle of the staff with him. Then he said, “I have a hatsu now. I could show you later, if you’re staying.”

Killua looked at him. If he didn’t know any better he’d say that sounded like Kalluto _wanted_ him to stay later. “Uh, yeah,” he said, “that would be cool. I mean, if you don’t mind me knowing what it is.”

“I don’t mind,” Kalluto said. He said it so firmly and simply that you’d almost think he didn’t know how serious a thing it was to show your nen abilities to someone you might one day go up against. In this family, there were no guarantees. It was almost as if… Almost as if this was his silent offer of peace. Killua was kind of touched.

“After dinner, then,” Killua said.

“After dinner,” Kalluto agreed. He glanced up, at the banister of the second floor, and added, “Milluki is complaining about the kitchens being off limits until dinner. Maybe you could distract him.”

Killua sighed heavily but made for the stairs anyways. Milluki had always sort of been his favorite brother. He might as well say hi.

The bedroom of Milluki Zoldyck, which was actually two suites and a master bath, was just as claustrophobic with knicknacks and watching plastic eyes as he remembered it. There was a new life sized idol figure lurking by the door, tipped over on the edge of her stand so that when Killua pushed his way into the room, she toppled and fell into his shoulder. Grimacing, Killua put one finger to her resin forehead and pushed her back into place.

“This one is new,” he remarked.

Milluki squinted over his shoulder at the intrusion, pixel brightness lighting up one side of his face almost blue. “Don’t touch her,” he snapped, “Miki-chan is one of a kind, they don’t even have the molds anymore.”

Killua surveyed the dim heap of the room, picking out piles of junk along the floor that really shouldn’t be there. He must have been more put out about the kitchens than Killua expected. “You really threw a fit,” he said, nudging a collectible lunchbox with the toe of one sneaker. “So what, you can break your stuff but I can’t?”

“It’s my stuff.”

“How come you didn’t just kill one of the butlers and go in anyways? I know you could.”

Milluki turned back to his screen, hunched. “Mom’s got her visor turned on, and she’s guarding the pantry again.”

“Don’t you usually keep a stash of chips hoarded in here?”

Milluki slammed the Return key hard enough that the whole keyboard creaked. “This is a twelve days of Christmas marathon play session, bonus items for everyone who can stay online 240 out of 288 hours. I haven’t left my room in days. I didn’t even sleep last night so I’d have enough hours to eat dinner with the family.”

“You don’t think mom would come all the way in here and drag you out, do you?” Killua said, “I mean, if it came to that you could probably fight her off. I’m sure you’ve got this place booby trapped.”

“Dunno.” There was clicking, keys clattering, the flash of the screen changing images. “Didn’t think much about it. I like Christmas dinner.”

“Ugh, why?”

“Duh. Four courses? Cherry stuffed goose? Thousand year eggs? Some of the shit mom puts on the table is illegal in every known country.”

Killua pushed a pile of cosplay stuff off the spare desk chair and made himself a seat. “You could just eat the leftovers you know.”

Milluki shrugged his broad shoulders, clicking absently. “Dad doesn’t come home that often. Going downstairs is a pain but that’s where everybody else is, so…”

Killua picked up a gamekid and flipped it open, his mind only half on the machine in his hands. He felt like he’d seen a decent amount of his father when he lived here, but–-in retrospect it was almost always when he had some finished lesson to demonstrate his mastery over, or when his father had some specific skill to tutor him in, something that neither Illumi nor the butlers could do. Since Milluki dropped out of the assassination game about the same time Killua started being groomed for it, his older brother probably saw an awful lot less of their father than he did.

After a while of nothing in particular–-being silent in each other’s company was something they had always been pretty good at-–there was a rap of polite but insistent knocking.

“Young masters,” a familiar female voice called, “we are ready to receive you in the main drawing room for drinks and appetizers.”

Killua abandoned his game, maneuvering over to the door to pry it open again. Outside was Amane, straight-backed and looking only a shade older than he remembered her, mostly in the sharpness of her cheeks. She bowed slightly, as poker faced as could be.

“Your lady mother awaits you in the drawing room,” she said, apparently addressing the floor.

Well, it was no use trying to figure out what side she was on these days. Killua passed around her and headed back down, half listening for the creak and thud of Milluki coming behind him.

His mother was wearing one of her hooped ballroom-curtain skirts, and one of her billowing poet blouses under a snowflake-festooned sweater vest. Clearly she was getting better at making clothes. And obviously her vanity wouldn’t let her wear one of the early abominations. Killua rolled his eyes.

“Sweetie!” his mother shrieked, lighting up the moment she spotted him in the doorway. She grabbed her skirts and rushed towards him, one big rustle and flap of cloth as she raced across the floor. Killua ground a heel into the carpet and retreated backwards, up onto the staircase, claws splintering the polished wood as he landed crouched.

His mother paused, under the doorway, her arms spread in an aborted hug.

In the uncomfortable moment that followed, Milluki finally reached the bottom of the stairs. He had apparently pulled on his own knitted monstrosity, which was more of a cardigan and less of a sweater, the holly leaf patterns straining a bit around his shoulders. Killua was starting to think that his own (bulky, knobby, a little off center) had been the first one made, and that was sort of an uncomfortable realization.

“Merry Christmas, Killua sweetie,” his mother said, abruptly shifting her open arms to pat at her elaborate up-do, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair back into place. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Killua hesitated for a moment, but–-they had already been through all this hadn’t they? Twice, once when he left and once when he returned for Alluka. She probably had just wanted to give him a hug, no strings attached. Probably. He hopped down again and strolled across the floor, hands in pockets. But he stopped a couple feet away from her, just in case.

“Hey,” he said.

“You look so skinny,” his mother said, planting her hands on her hips. “Are you working out? Are you feeding yourself?”

“I don’t need to be huge,” Killua snapped back, “I’m not dragging people into lakes and tearing saferooms out of walls anymore.”

His mother pursed her lips and turned away, fixing her attention on the slender bottle next to the good crystal. “Let’s not talk about all that,” she said, pouring herself a generous helping of mulled wine. “I’m just happy you’re home again. Have some wine, sweetie.”

Killua accepted his standard half-glass of holiday alcohol without bothering to sniff it for poisons, took a sip, and then blinked woozily at the spinning room. Fuck, he forgot he hadn’t been keeping up with his immunity training. He grabbed a couch arm tightly and tried to pretend like nothing was wrong. Thank god Christmas dinner was the only meal his parents didn’t bother to poison. When he was a little kid, it had been a huge relief on his developing organs.

His mother chattered on at him while he did his best to pretend like he was listening–-in retrospect, that was more effort than he usually put into conversations with his mother, so her obvious delight was probably fair. Kalluto arrived like a shadow passing under the mantle piece, and then Illumi some time after, now decorated with an ostentatious holly leaf headband and looking as perfectly bland as ever underneath it.

The moment that the bell rang to signal the first course had arrived, Killua’s father landed with a thud at the bottom of the stairwell outside the drawing room, rattling the China in the cabinets with his arrival. For a moment Killua just stared at him. What was the deal with his family? Why did they even have stairs if they were just going to jump off things all the time? Why were they like this?

Dinner was… dinner. Extravagant, bloated, detailed down to the last flag on the marzipan arch, and blessedly unpoisoned. Kalluto said almost nothing. Milluki complained about inflated currency in the region. Kikyo lamented, sometimes right over the top of Milluki, how difficult it was to procure this and that for dinner, and how many things had gone wrong in the kitchen, and her great disappointment that Killua had failed to remember what the oyster fork was for. His father, after some quiet observation, asked him about his travels, and at last the weirdness of the evening broke. For the whole time since he arrived at the gates, it was like Killua had been watching himself in third person, seeing every familiar thing like a stranger. Having something to report to his father gave him a diversion from all that, and he launched into it full force.

Maybe a little too full force. Eventually he became aware of the rest of the table watching him, curiously, as they popped tidbits from their forks into their mouths. To avoid thinking about it, Killua went into even deeper detail than before. He was talking with his mouth full, shoveling in bites of cranberry bread pudding, and he couldn’t stop. Being listened to was too weird. If he stopped now he’d probably have a crisis. He was going so fast through his explanation of Greed Island that he inhaled the last forkful of pudding, choked, and fell forward coughing onto his plate. Illumi, beside him, reached over and neatly thumped him on the back.

Killua came up red-faced and at a loss, finally, for words.

“Well,” his mother said, slowly, “everyone… seems to be done with their plates… Let’s adjourn for presents, shall we?”

One by one the Zoldycks rose, shooting Killua hesitant looks as they went. Killua remained sitting, angrily scraping the last of the sugared nuts from the corners of his plate. He was a freak in his own family now. He’d been gone for so long that even the people who had raised him, who had made him what he was, didn’t know what to do with him.

His grandfather was the last to leave. Zeno paused, passing behind Killua’s chair, and laid a hand on the teen’s shoulder.

“It’s nice that you’re talking to us again,” he remarked. “Personally I had bet that you’d sulk the whole time. Looks like I owe Tsubone-chan a few jenny.”

“I think mom would have preferred that,” Killua muttered.

Zeno’s hand tightened once, and then released. “Young people,” he sighed. “I forget how different everything looks to you. We’re all glad you’re talking, especially your mother. It’s been quiet around here since you left.”

Staff members began to pour into the room, whisking away glasses and place settings in a whirl of flashing silver and crystal, leaving Killua and Zeno a lone island of stillness in a perfectly choreographed storm. Killua suddenly remembered how he used to spend the holidays, like most days, in the servants quarters with the staff. His mother used to have to pry him out and drag him back to the house for dinner.

“That’s our cue,” his grandfather said. With a lazy shuffle that managed to perfectly navigate between each oncoming servant without disturbing their path in the slightest, he made his way to the living room. A moment later, Killua followed him.

They had erected a smaller tree in the center of the room, maybe nine feet high, glittering with clear glass ornaments. The baubles were almost invisible against the needles. One by one they all selected their seats under its incandescent glow, most of the illumination in an otherwise moody and dark stone room.

In the Zoldyck household, traditionally, the parents presented their children with piles of gifts–-weapons, oddities, gourmet snacks–-and their children returned the favor with gifts of service. Memorably, when Killua was nine years old, his father had assigned him an obstacle course which included a live alligator. His unexpected attachment to that alligator had ruined Christmas for everyone else in the family, an unforeseen consequence that had pleased him immensely at the time. Now, in the living room, Killua sank like a wary shadow into the corner of the antique sofa and watched Kalluto present their father with the grisly trophy of his holiday murder, perfectly stoic in the face of his father’s rare warm approval.

Illumi quietly passed over a brutal looking candid photograph, grainy with captured streetlights. Milluki had apparently finished some difficult encryption process, and he flapped a sheaf of papers down on the coffee table as if the whole thing was a troublesome unnecessary exercise, yet still watching his parents carefully as they turned over the pages and clicked their tongues approvingly. And finally, the eyes of the room shifted to the heir.

Being somewhat familiar with his father’s moods, it kind of seemed to Killua that his father was approaching him like a spookable animal, hands open, trying not to startle.

“Well Killua,” he said, “we won’t worry about your gift, this year.”

“Your presence is gift enough,” his mother interrupted, clutching Kalluto’s severed gift hand to her beruffled chest. “We’re so happy to have you home again, sweetheart.”

“I brought presents,” Killua said.

“You…” his mother echoed, “brought… presents?”

Killua stretched over the arm of the sofa to where one of the butlers had helpfully deposited his traveling bag. There was no way he was coming all the way to the family home just to get the same old weird special treatment, to watch his parents ply him with their generous offers of _understanding,_ as if they could make him sorrier by forgiving him in advance. He was going to make sure there was absolutely nothing for them to hold over his head, if the day came that they got tired of their patient indulgences. Old habits died hard in a family like his.

The contents of Killua’s traveling pack: for Silva, moon melons, twin endangered fruits grown only in the gardens of a single Padokean diplomat; for Kikyo, exquisite foreign cherries, each the grade and sweetness certified for a queen; a lady’s lace fan, six centuries old, for Kalluto; a copy of the extremely rare and controversial dating sim “Amorous Ants” for Milluki; and—

Illumi lifted the twin knitting needles to eye level, puzzling over their perfectly ordinary auras. “They’re not…” he said, “very… typical weapons…”

Killua didn’t quite smile, but he did show his small white teeth. “Keep looking.”

Illumi dutifully ruffled through the tissue and came up with two skeins of yarn. Perfectly ordinary, violet yarn. He blinked uncertainly at Killua.

“You could use a hobby,” Killua told him. His not-quite-smile widened.

Illumi was quiet for a moment. He ran his fingers over the fuzzy loops like a blind person touching Braille for the first time. The part of Killua that liked to play it safe started to sweat, writhing at the back of his head. Could he afford to antagonize Illumi like this? Illumi was powerful, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms in the past, maybe this wasn’t so smart—

Then Illumi looked up. “Thank you, Killu. I will treasure this gift.” He closed his hands around the yarn the needles, pulling them against himself as if they were endangered and fragile.

Killua just stalled out, mouth open in the remnants of a grimace. “Uh,” he said, “sure.”

And the rest of the family, apparently satisfied, moved right along.

Hours later, in the darkness of the evening, Kalluto climbed up onto the practice ring set into the grass, just outside the yellow light of the manor windows. The moon was setting huge and fat behind the trees, but the butlers carried lantern after lantern out over the grass. Their glowing procession of paper moonlets returned color to splashes of Kalluto’s red kimono.

Killua perched on a fallen practice dummy, hulking and wooden and just the right distance to avoid getting scratched. As Kalluto moved slowly--slow, and then faster through the elegant lunges of a kungfu routine--Killua felt the air ripple and part behind him. He tensed.

“Were _you_ invited?” he snapped, not bothering to turn and see Illumi emerge from the darkness.

The very matter of the air melted away around Illumi’s approach, sloshing like water over the edge of a bathtub. “I’m sure Kallu would say something if I wasn’t welcome.”

Killua took a moment to think some uncharitable things about how he wouldn’t trust Illumi to respect a peace offering like this if there was a nen chain around his heart. But he was still feeling kind of weird about Illumi’s sincere gratitude earlier, so all he said was, “Mmph.”

They watched together as the graceful routine became a conductor’s dance, guiding the rising paper shapes up into formation.

“This is my favorite holiday,” Illumi remarked, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

Killua turned in his seat, leveling his brother with the full power of his disbelief. “ _You_  have a favorite holiday?”

“There is no joy in this world save the prosperity of the family,” Illumi said. He tucked a strand of long hair behind his ear, eyes fixed ahead of him. “Christmas… makes me happy.”

Killua frowned and muttered to himself, “I didn’t know you could feel anything.”

Illumi pointed to the field, where the blizzard of fine paper scraps swelled and twirled around Kalluto. “When he succeeds, I am happy. When we all sit together in the same room, I am happy. When you sit beside me, like this, and talk to me–” he folded his hands in his lap, “I am happy.”

Killua had no idea what to say to that. He’d always seen Illumi’s interest in them all-–in himself especially–-as calculated, proprietary. Greedy, even. He guessed Illumi had always been so much older than him, so far away and above him in terms of skill and responsibility, that he’d never bothered to think of his brother as a person. Maybe even a sad person.

“It’s good that you came back,” Illumi said.

“I’m not staying,” Killua replied, immediately.

The barest whisper of aura flared. “I could make you.”

Killua looked at him. Really actually looked. “Let’s say you could,” he said, “not that you can, but let’s say you could. Let’s not do this tonight, okay? Not on Christmas.”

He wasn’t sure how much he meant it. But it seemed like, however much the date meant to him, it meant a lot more to Illumi. The eldest Zoldyck nodded, slowly, the inane blinking nose of his sweater going on on on.

“No,” Illumi agreed, “that wouldn’t do.”


End file.
